Chapter 19
ELLIE
The first thing I notice as we retrace our steps to the grand ballroom is that most of the staff has left. Only a few remain in the kitchen, slicing, cutting, and pouring drinks.
The reasoning becomes apparent when we finally enter the gaudy ballroom, with the dangling chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling windows, and intricately engraved filigree.
The men and women working in the kitchen—and the ones who willingly wore masks at the last POP event—were hired by The Divine One. They knew exactly what they had signed up for, and while they may not have agreed with it, they still served willingly.
But the men and women carrying trays of champagne flutes now?
I… I don’t think they’re willing.
Most of them are naked or wearing such little clothing they might as well be.
A gaunt-looking woman walks by holding a tray in trembling hands, her thin body covered in bruises and bloody gashes that appear fresh, only a few days old.
She’s naked but bedecked in jewelry—a dozen necklaces of various sizes that dip directly between her bare breasts, some bracelets on her wrists, and a few golden chains on her ankles.
Masked assholes grab at her as she walks by, though she doesn’t react in the slightest, her expression carefully blank.
Dead.
One grabs a fistful of her ass and squeezes. Another palms her breast. Another pinches her nipple.
I count at least a dozen naked men and women in the room. All with the same deadened expression, like they’ve given up on fighting.
I wonder if Reece is here.
I don’t think I want to know.
I don’t even realize I’m taking a step toward the woman—desperate to help her, to do something—when Beckett grabs my arm, stopping me.
“We can’t,” he reminds me, sounding pained. Agony reflects in his multicolored eyes. “I want to. God knows I want to. But we can’t. Not yet.”
A burn crawls up my throat and crowds my eyes, but I nod. I know he’s right, but standing here, doing nothing, makes me feel physically sick.
The crowd has finally begun to notice us now.
Dozens upon dozens of masked faces turn in our direction.
I wonder who I know behind the ominous masks.
Dominic’s dad and brother, for sure. But is there anyone else?
POP’s reach expands in every direction, across every state.
How many politicians are here tonight? How many celebrities?
Acid-tipped talons scrape along my throat as I follow Aria to a grand piano near the center of the room.
A lone spotlight illuminates it. The ivory keys gleam softly in the light, inviting the touch of fingers that might coax them to life.
My hands twitch by my sides as I study the lacquered surface of the grand piano.
“Welcome.” Aria doesn’t need a microphone to speak.
Everyone silences almost instantly when they see her masked face.
“Thank you all for joining us tonight.” A scattering of applause ripples through the crowd.
Aria waits for the noise to fade before continuing.
“Our goddess has agreed to put on a show for us.” She sweeps her arms in my direction, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
The four of us are already the only ones—excluding the servers—not dressed in elaborate robes and masks. We garnered attention the second we stepped into the ballroom.
“She’s not a goddess. She’s a princesa,” Zane mutters sulkily.
I snort.
“Cassia.” Aria gestures toward the grand piano with more contempt than courtesy, at least in my opinion. “If you may.”
“I may not,” I murmur, though my feet drag me toward the bench. My guys remain right beside me, crowding me.
Music has always been my sanctuary, my safe place. It was a way for me to silence the voices in my mind, if only for a moment. Now, I feel as if the rug has been pulled out from under me.
No, I growl internally, my fingers hovering over the keys.
I won’t allow Aria to take this from me. She’s already taken so much—my parents, my friends, my safety.
I won’t give her music too.
Taking a deep breath, I allow my eyes to flutter shut, my lashes feather-soft against my cheeks. The room is already quiet, the crowd collectively holding their breath, so it’s easy to forget that they’re even there.
I’m not playing for them or The Divine One.
I’m playing for myself.
For my men.
Each of their faces flashes in my mind’s eye.
Dominic, with his emerald-green eyes and shaggy blond hair.
Zane, with that perpetual impish smirk that lightens his eyes from an obsidian black to a honey brown.
Beckett, one eye a startling green and the other a forest brown, his smile always warm and inviting, drawing me in and promising me sanctuary.
Landon, with his light brown hair and the way his lips twitch like he’s about to smile but is holding it back.
Ryker, whose ice-blue eyes appear cold but actually smolder like a dozen fires, the heat invading my body.
Then I begin to play.
It’s delicate at first, tentative, like a whisper into the vast emptiness.
But soon, the notes begin to gather strength, swelling and pulsing, each one flowing into the next as if the keys themselves are alive.
My fingers dance across the ivory, each movement fluid yet deliberate. A soft, steady pressure, a release—a push and pull that mirrors the rising and falling of a heartbeat.
The music fills the room like a living thing. It breathes, it whispers, it shouts. Every note seems to hold the weight of a thousand unspoken words.
I’m not sure if I would classify this particular song as a love story. It’s too bitter and broken to be that. It’s a story about survival and pain and grit—and the six people who stood by each other through it all.
As the tempo quickens, so does the movement of my hands.
My fingers fly across the keys, fast and precise, the sound sharp and clear, echoing against the walls.
I furrow my brow in concentration, even as my fingers quicken, a fluidity in my movements, an ease that came from years of practice, from the muscle memory built up over countless hours.
I press my foot against the pedal, lifting the notes into the air, stretching them like threads of light, weaving them into something great.
For a moment, the world outside the music seems to vanish. Each note feels like a confession, each chord like a prayer.
My story.
Our story.
The Kings of Grove Academy and the girl who loves their darkness.
When the final note hangs in the air, suspended, there’s a brief silence that almost feels sacred. Then, like a breath released, the last note dies away, and the room bursts into raucous applause.
I remain where I am, my head lowered, my shoulders shaking, tension thrumming through my muscles.
“Ellie…” Beckett breathes, awe seeping into his voice. “That was amazing.”
“My greatest accomplishment was climbing out of that well I fell into,” Zane tells me. “But you…you created magic.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Someone touches my arm, and I finally peel my gaze away from the keys, turning toward Dominic.
Love emanates from his bright green gaze. “You are the best thing to exist in this world.”
The crowd continues to whoop and cheer, but I barely hear them. They don’t matter right now. None of them do.
I didn’t play for them or their appreciation.
I focus instead on the men I love—only them—and allow a tentative smile to pull up my lips.
And for the first time in who knows how long, I allow myself to believe that everything will be okay. My song had a happy ending; I’ll make sure my story has one too.